


Fifty-Two Pick-Up

by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy



Series: For Mad Science, John [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clones, Extreme Friendliness, First Time, Humor, M/M, Mad Science, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately following <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/816370">An Embarrassment of Sherlocks</a>. Readers of both the original and the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/904995">Chinese translation</a> have asked, How does Sherlock sort out all the extra Sherlocks? and, Can't John have fun with more than one Sherlock? This story, well, maddeningly fails to really answer either question, but at least there's some smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifty-Two Pick-Up

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[翻译] 52捡捡捡](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212808) by [fisafisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fisafisa/pseuds/fisafisa)



> There were 52 Sherlocks in the first story, and "52 Pick-Up" is that annoying prank 'game' where you scatter a deck of cards everywhere and say "Pick up!"

_"You sort this lot out, and meet me upstairs."_

When John was done in the shower, he emerged with caution, in his towel, to find the flat apparently empty. So… did that mean that Sherlock, the real, original Sherlock, was waiting for him upstairs? In his bed?

John started up the stairs to find out, but then about halfway, his feet slowed to a pause. How exactly _did_ Sherlock sort them all out...? John could not have been more than fifteen minutes showering. Twenty, tops. Where had they gone?

What did Sherlock do with them? Specifically, what did Sherlock do _to_ them? John really didn't like to think about a colossal crime-scene pile of dead Sherlocks crammed into 221C, their own private mortuary. A bit more than Not Good. A bit - Utterly Godawful.

But there was no way that could have been accomplished in fifteen minutes.

Surely.

Probably.

Well.

Maybe he had better go and look.

He was just turning to go back down when Sherlock's voice called lazily down from above.

"I haven't killed any of them," he said. "Come up."

That was reassuring?

Well.

...That _was_ reassuring, actually. John had been able to believe such a thing before, after all. On his first feeling of doubt here at the flat, all that time ago. When John recognised the pink case. _I didn't kill her,_ impatient, and so obviously telling the truth. John had been able to feel it. From the first, he'd always been able to feel it. Trust.

He went up.

Sherlock, singular, was alone, naked in John's bed.

He wasn't sprawled out provocatively, leaning his head on his arm. Nor was he sitting crosslegged, a laptop illuminating his private bits with the light of terrifying research porn. John had, frankly, imagined both of these scenarios in some detail.

No, Sherlock was under the covers, with only the tousled top of his head visible, and his clear eyes, glaring. John only knew he must be naked in there by the presence of the purple shirt and the other things 'Sherlock #1' had been wearing before John took his shower. Shoes, trousers, a hint of black pants. All over John's room, foreign objects violating the neat and ordered space.

Muffled by the sheets, Sherlock said, "I can't believe I had to masturbate in front of you to get your attention."

John was so startled, he dropped his towel.

"You - What? ...didn't," but then he remembered the other two Sherlocks on the sofa. Kissing. And fondling. And the half dressed one and the look on his face as - Until this moment he had not imagined -

"Oh," he said. And now Sherlock was sitting up, examining John with interest, because John was naked and thinking about sex.

"There you are, John," he said, "fully and one hundred per cent obvious. As ever. You fuss about people assuming we're together, but let's skip over the boring and obvious parts, shall we, like enumerating all the ways in which we obviously are together, so that I can point out to you that half of everyone assumes you are shagging me senseless when you get me alone, and the other half assumes I'm the one doing it to you, so pick one and get over here and if you don't like it we'll try it the other way," and by now John had finally crossed the room and yanked the covers down.

Yes: naked. In John's bed.

Sherlock had finally stopped talking. He stared: John stared back: It was not sexy, it was absurd, it was a cartoon. _Someone's been sleeping in **my** bed! And here he is!_

They dissolved in laughter.

But at least it finally got John onto the bed, gasping for air.

Sherlock was half sitting up, and John was half turned towards him. John was torn between trying not to stare and wanting like _hell_ to stare. He would really have expected Sherlock to have no body modesty at all, but given his behaviour now, that stunt at the Palace had been sheer stubbornness and bravado, not exhibitionism. Mycroft's threat to let him go naked had indeed been a threat. And that reminded John of something else Mycroft had said.

"Are you really a virgin?" he asked. "Or was your brother just being a dick?" Both seemed equally possible. But Sherlock had said nothing, and he loved nothing better than to refute Mycroft. So, probably...

"Those things are not mutually exclusive," said Sherlock, confirming John's theory.

"Well, listen," said John, "I don't exactly have a lot of experience - "

"I know perfectly well that you've had sex with men, John. Two men. Both army. One before you shipped out, and one over there." John just stared at him, and after a moment Sherlock said, in a gentler tone than usual, "You thought you had at least one secret from me. But this is _me_ , John. And this is _you_. And you fascinate me more than anything in the world. Of course I know. It was my only hope."

"I'm," John said, trying to stop himself, caught in the reflex of it, but Sherlock was merciful again and overrode him.

"Not gay, no, but you _are_ bisexual, John."

John sighed. Deeply.

But here they were in his bed, at his own invitation, and Sherlock was _Sherlock_ , everything beautiful about him was also masculine, and it was true that John had felt you could only like one thing or the other deep down, it was true that he had thought that admitting how very much he wanted Sherlock had to mean changing everything about himself and what he liked and what people thought of him. But if that weren't true, then maybe wanting Sherlock only meant - that he wanted Sherlock.

Because of course he wanted Sherlock. John could not really understand why anyone wouldn't.

"Yeah," he said.

He turned towards Sherlock and reached out to touch his face. Sherlock blinked and leaned into it, like a child, like a cat; and John thought again about what he'd said earlier, in the midst of all the snogging.

"You said you're lonely," John said. "If it's just that - then it doesn't have to be sex. If you just want to, to touch. I could - We could do that." It might kill him with wanting, but he could. He's pretty sure he could.

"No, it was a euphemism," said Sherlock, "I was attempting to entice you sexually," and John kissed him. His lips were soft and warm, a bit slack with ignorance at first but so sweet.

"You're very enticing," John said. "All by yourself." He slid an arm round Sherlock's waist. Then he paused. "What _did_ you do with all of those clones?"

Sherlock leaned into him, pressing him back. His big hands were very warm. "They weren't clones. They were all me."

"That makes no sense," John complained.

"That's not my fault," Sherlock said, and that was true enough.

When John had started to say he didn't have a lot of experience, he had been about to confess - to one of the two men. He barely remembered the first, he'd got blind drunk just to nerve himself up to do it. The second…

Someone slid up against his back and John reacted badly. He twisted, shouting, striking out, but Sherlock behind him was restraining him and Sherlock in front of him had his hands up to guard himself from harm -

"Oh for God's sake," he gasped.

"I'm just showing you, John, honestly." "Yes, this is just one division. It's ridiculously simple." They spoke almost on top of one another. John sighed as Sherlock, the real Sherlock, kissed his neck in apology, but when the second one leaned in he averted his face.

"John," said the second Sherlock, "it's still me, I'm exactly the same person."

"Yes; problem?" said the first one, pressing his lips to John's earlobe, and his warm low voice thrummed through John like a shock wave.

"Two virgins at the same time?" said John, weakly. "That's a little bit of a problem."

" _One_ virgin, in two simultaneous iterations," said Two, as insufferably smug as only a real Sherlock could be.

"My bed isn't big enough for three."

"As you can see right now, it actually is," "as long as all three are _extremely_ friendly."

"Right, I am not kidding," John tried to be stern. He had to shut his eyes in order to do so. Too tempting otherwise.

A sigh, a shift of the bedsprings, and there was just the two of them in the bed again. John was just about to say something like "That's better" or "That's more like it," but he didn't get the chance. Sherlock was still operating on the concept of _extreme friendliness_ and rolled on top of him, pinning him down to the bed.

John wasn't sure he liked it. Being pinned down. But he was being kissed too thoroughly to spare breath to protest. And by the time he could talk again, he was sure: he did like it. Sherlock's body both fit and didn't fit with his, depending on how they were aligned vertically.

And speaking of that. As Sherlock slid, seeking out that fit, their cocks dragged together, hot and silky and seemingly surprised to encounter one another, and John moaned. Sherlock pulled back to look into his face, which was very embarrassing.

And oh God even worse, Sherlock started talking. While still doing that. That _thing,_ rocking his hips.

"Why don't you want to be with two of me?"

_Because that makes it like a game, like one of your experiments._

"I hardly know what to do with one of you."

"You've been with two men."

"Not at the _same time!"_

"That's not what I meant."

"Stop - " and Sherlock instantly went still, before John could even finish the sentence "- _talking!"_

"Oh," said Sherlock in surprise, then started rocking again, and leaned down to suck on John's neck like a brand new teenage vampire.

"Ow, quit that," but he was squirming and gasping at the enthusiasm and just a little bit at the pain. He was going to have love bites all over his neck, visible to the world.

From Sherlock.

He inhaled sharply as it suddenly boiled up inside him, a wild pleasure he couldn't contain, like a whip being cracked, and he was the whip. He gasped and came, throbbing and dismayed, and feeling like a teenager himself.

Sherlock reared up, supporting himself with his arms as he looked down over John, who was flushed and squirming and spattered with obvious guilt.

"You ejaculated," he said, which might have taken that year's Obvious Award but that he said it in such an elated tone that John almost forgot his embarrassment. Almost, because Sherlock reached between them, smearing his fingers in semen, and lifting them to his mouth to taste.

The doubtful look on his face was not encouraging.

"Um," said John, and the squirming was back, though with rather less force now. The receding wave of that unexpected orgasm had him warm and nearly blissful. "Sorry if - "

"It tastes different to mine," said Sherlock.

"Does it," said John. He looked down between them. He imagined two possibilities: a dreamy, post-masturbatory Sherlock lolling naked across his bed, idly tasting his fingers; or a coldly keen-eyed Sherlock studying his own spunk in a test tube, looking at it through the microscope. At Bart's. While Molly tried to make conversation with him.

At this point it became necessary to touch, it really did. John reached down between them, and found the shaft of Sherlock's cock slapped into his palm like a surgical instrument. Nurse! Penis! - Penis, Doctor.

"John," Sherlock sighed, his voice like dripping honey, and he arched his back as John stroked him. Eyes closed. Lips parted.

"I've wondered what you'd look like," John found himself saying, looking up into that flushed face, "I want to see the look on your face when you come." The hot, smooth weight of it in his hand, the frantic heartbeat he could feel with his fingertips. He stroked Sherlock the way he would do for himself, slow luxurious strokes at first, gently exploring.

Sherlock was just too fucking beautiful. More than one of him at a time would have given John a heart attack.

"I've wanted you forever," John told him, and when Sherlock opened his eyes and mouth he went on quickly, "and don't tell me you know. I know you know."

Sherlock gave a little laugh that was also a gasp. But he only closed his eyes and said, " _John_ ," again, this time in a tone that touched John all over like a fond caress. John's grip on him tightened and Sherlock whimpered, thrusting forward for more. "Johnnn."

And that was what that was, John realised. He loved to hear Sherlock say his name, and Sherlock knew that too, and was reciprocating pleasure as he received it. Who knew? In the midst of his very first time, Sherlock Holmes was actually a considerate lover.

And what did Sherlock like even more than this physical pleasure which made him squirm and moan and thrust into John's hand? What should a considerate lover do for him that he wasn't already doing?

"You are _amazing_ ," John breathed. "Look at you, I've never seen anyone so beautiful in my life, never wanted anyone so much, that's right, you're going to come for me, oh yes you are, my God you're fantastic Sherlock - "

The name was like a magic word.

John could see it hit him and the effect sweeping over him, like that old Star Trek movie, the what-do-you-call-it, Genesis wave, rushing over a planet in a computer simulation. It was a lot like that. Only it was _Sherlock_.

Sherlock ducked his head down, and for a disappointing instant John thought he would not get to see his face at the crucial moment after all, but it seemed that Sherlock was actually looking down at his cock and John's hand on it. When he started to come, he gasped and looked up at John, and the look on his face -

"Sherlock - " "John - " Their names overlapped one another. It was appallingly romantic. (Sherlock told him that later.)

And Sherlock made a sound that might possibly have been him trying to say 'John' again, but he couldn't manage any of the consonants. It was a deep squawk, a ridiculous, nonverbal sound in that marvellous voice from that glorious mouth as he came all over John's skin.

John had never heard anything so good. Sherlock's brain would never have allowed such a noise. This was all transport. Sherlock came so beautifully, gloriously hard that it shook him all over, and when it was done with him he just collapsed on top of John, insensible of the mess.

John had been getting aroused again by all this, but he would have to wait.

As he put his arms around Sherlock, who was now very solidly asleep, John had to admit to himself, he was maybe just a _little_ bit sorry he'd insisted that his bed wasn't big enough for three.

Maybe next time.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> With a little bow to [mycapeisplaid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid) for the phrase 'considerate lover'. Check out [Corpus Hominis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/790501/) if you haven't had the pleasure. I liked it so much I recorded it as a [podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1171867).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Fifty-Two Pick-Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485625) by [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy)




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